


A Page Where We Transcend the Story

by cybergreen



Series: Crush, Part III [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathing/Washing, Enthusiastic Kissing, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Laughter, Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Post-Coital Cuddling, Season/Series 13, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 09:04:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14329122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cybergreen/pseuds/cybergreen
Summary: someone is drawing a bath to wash you clean, he said, / so think of the wind, so happy, so warm. it's a fairy tale, / the story underneath the storyHe has to spill out that confession; theywontoday and yet all he keeps seeing is that other Castiel, that beat-down near-human, still-loyalCas, lying bleeding and broken, all sweat and agony, dying alone because ofDean.





	A Page Where We Transcend the Story

**Author's Note:**

> it's a sunday & i read siken on sundays
> 
> couldn't not continue where i last left off

He still has Cas’ blood on his hands. 

It’s all over. Mary is sleeping in her room, freshly washed up and bandaged, safe and sound. Jack, who came back a little quieter, a little less tender around the edges after killing Michael, is likewise recuperating. Dean hopes that they’ll both be okay. And even if not – well, that’s what family is for. To be there when you’re not okay.

And Dean is… Dean is definitely not okay.

He’s still not okay when quiet footsteps sound in the hallway and a soft knock comes at his door.

He lifts his voice to mutter, “Come in,” and isn’t surprised when Castiel opens the door and steps onto the threshold. He stands there looking in. “Need something?” Dean hates that the question makes Castiel shift as if trying to shrug off a burden, hates the startle in his eyes; that hatred directed mostly at himself, for not teaching the angel that family is where you turn to with your needs. Even if he’s not very good at that himself.

“No, I… I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Peachy,” Dean says on instinct. At the look on Castiel’s face, however, he amends, “It’s been a long day. A long year,” he adds, because that’s true. “But we got Mom back, and Jack back. And we got you back. The whole family. So, a good day. Maybe even a good year, for once.” He smiles. “I’m just tired.” He goes to scrub a hand over his face, over the weary ache of his eyes. He halts and flinches when he remembers the blood, and then all he can see is _red_ and Castiel dying in front of him, again and again.

“Dean, you’re hurt?” Castiel asks softly, concerned, crossing the room and reaching for Dean’s hands, moving to search for the injury when Dean jerks back, out of reach.

“I’m okay,” he says, though his voice betrays that he’s clearly not. He tries to swallow around the jagged shrapnel of the lump in his throat. “It’s not mine.”

“It’s yours,” Dean blurts before Castiel can say anything. And then Castiel is doing his squinty, head-tilt thing and Dean’s heart breaks, again, because he can hear the _You haven’t hurt me, so how can it be mine?_ as clearly as if he’d said it, and Dean knows that’s a goddamn _lie_. But Dean clears his throat and says, “You remember when you saved my ass? When Zachariah zapped me into that shitty future so I’d say yes to Michael?”

“We had an appointment,” Castiel says in that same gentle, clever voice he used that night, and the same affection, stronger now, lights up in Dean’s chest. There’s a fond smile on Castiel’s face at the memory. “You told me I should never change,” he adds, and that smile drops a little. There’s still a pinch of confusion around his eyes.

“You were there. In that future.” Dean knows that Castiel knows this; they talked about it, back then – or at least, Dean had given him a rough recap of what happened. He’d said something along the lines of the angel going “one trip short of Woodstock,” which Castiel hadn’t understood, and then Dean had finished his story with what had really mattered at the time: they all died and the devil won. Dean hadn’t wanted to go into more detail. But he has to now; he has to spill out that confession; they _won_ today and yet all he keeps seeing is that other Castiel, that beat-down near-human, still-loyal _Cas_ , lying bleeding and broken, all sweat and agony, dying alone because of _Dean._

So he says, “I sent you to die, Cas, I— the me, in that future, I knew what would happen and I didn’t care, and I didn’t even hesitate to—”

“That future didn’t happen, Dean,” Castiel interrupts, firm and rational, calling him back to the present. “It was—”

“Some hallucination those dicks cooked up, yeah. I thought so, too. But in some world, in some version of time, it all happened, Cas, I…”

Dean sees the moment Castiel understands. “It was one of the rifts,” he says, softly. The compassion in his eyes is something Dean doesn’t feel he deserves.

Dean nods, and that guilt surges back up. It tastes acrid in the back of his throat. “Yeah.” He looks down at his hands, at the blood dried dark and tacky on his skin. “I watched you die.” And then, because it’s true and he hates it, “I watched you die _again_.” His voice comes out as rough as his smashed-gravel insides. _Castiel blown to bits; Castiel disappearing in the lake; stabbed in the gut, in the back; Castiel lying on the floor and trying to hold his insides in, gasping his last in Dean’s arms._ “You bled out in front of me, because of me, and I couldn’t, I couldn’t—”

He doesn’t realize how much he’s shaking until Castiel’s steady hand wraps gently but firmly around his wrist, pulling him up onto his feet. “Come with me,” Castiel says, a stern purpose in his blue eyes. Dean doesn’t argue.

Castiel leads him down the hallway to the dormitory wing bathroom, the one that’s a small and simple full bath instead of the large communal space a hall over. He only lets go of Dean’s wrist after he says “Sit” and Dean obeys, taking a seat on the toilet lid. Castiel busies himself at the sink, rummaging through the cabinet and wetting a cloth under the faucet.

By the time he turns back to Dean, one hand holding a washcloth and the other a bowl of water, Dean has figured out his intentions. “Cas, no, you don’t have to—”

“Dean.” His name and a look is all it takes to silence him, and then Dean is swallowing his heart back down his throat as Castiel kneels before him. This difference in height is just enough that, to meet Dean’s eyes, Castiel must tilt his head slightly back, looking up through his lashes. Heat floods Dean’s face and _elsewhere_ , and he shifts where he sits in a way that he hopes is subtle instead of in a way that screams he’s had a far less-than-platonic reaction to his best friend. And not for the first time.

Castiel gives no indication that he’s noticed. Despite the fact that he doesn’t read his mind, he can read social situations and body language pretty well now. He calls Dean on his bullshit in everything but _this_.

Dean sits there, like he’s sat for years but now he’s getting fed up with waiting. How can Castiel not _know_? There are times Dean feels like he’s screaming what he feels in everything but words; it’s not that he’s unwilling to talk about matters of the heart, but he does it on his own time, when he’s ready, when he has an idea _how_ , and so often that schedule seems so much slower than everybody else’s. What is he supposed to say? _Sorry I couldn’t look you in the eye when you were dying and told me you loved me, I was just overwhelmed, you know?_ Or, _hey, just so you know I saw that look when I said you were my brother; you knew I was lying, why can’t you just challenge me, how I feel for you is so not like how I feel about Sam._ And, _fuck. Come on, I got a boner for you right in front of you, you stupid, beautiful idiot why can’t you just—_

The warm press of the wet washcloth to his hand interrupts his thoughts. Castiel’s free hand is hot, like sunshine on his wrist, gently holding him steady as he passes the washcloth over the dried blood, not scrubbing but patiently circling until it loosens and lets go of his skin in a way that Dean can only describe as a _caress._ Castiel dips the cloth to that softest part between his fingers and Dean can’t suppress the full-body shiver that runs through him like electricity, like light, like…grace, he realizes. Castiel could easily clean the blood with a wave of his hand, but instead he’s choosing to do this, tenderly, on his knees on the bathroom floor, the human way, for Dean.

Dean is transfixed with wonder. Castiel rinses the cloth in the bowl, pinking the water the color blooming across Castiel’s cheeks and maybe – maybe – Castiel has noticed more than he’s let on. Because every time he looks at Castiel, Castiel has been looking _back_. Castiel told him he _loved him_ , and while they never talked about it (they never talk, they need to, it’s going to be the death of them), it’s still there, Dean realizes. It’s always been there. Dean’s just been too scared to look at it directly.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, one syllable of a name that is so much more than that brief letting-go of breath it takes to say; it’s everything. His heart beats in that name. He’s known for a little while what Castiel means to him. He knows what he feels. When he lit that pyre his heart burnt to ash, leaving a hollow inside him he knew he’d never be able to fill. Dean had died, like a grieving widower who couldn’t bear to go on. But then Castiel came _back_. And Dean’s empty heart regrew all it had felt before; he’d come _alive_ again.

Then he’d finally understood exactly what it was that he felt.   

Castiel looks up at the exhaled exultation. Meets Dean’s eyes. He doesn’t startle at what he sees there, and Dean knows what he sees. He’s looking at it reflected in Castiel’s eyes.

“Cas,” Dean breathes again. It’s not a question, but it feels like he’s asking for something, in the same way that lungs ask for air – because it’s necessary, because he needs it, because he can’t go any longer without it. And Castiel is looking at him like he’s also drowning, breathless in this space of possibility; to come up for air will be to cross the Rubicon between them, and Dean is…he’s okay with that. More than okay.

Castiel rises up to meet him as Dean reaches for him with hands washed clean.

Their first kiss is gentler than Dean expected, that first press of lips not coming on the heat and havoc of a battlefield but in the cool, florescent light of a bathroom. It’s private and sacred and perfect. Castiel’s hands settle on his shoulders, urging him closer. Dean cups Castiel’s face in his hands, adjusting their angle so the kiss deepens. It’s not urgent until it is, and like sparks skittering across the waiting brittle-snap branches of kindling they ignite.

Castiel pushes Dean back and his spine presses into the porcelain tank; he’s practically in Dean’s lap, fingers tangling through Dean’s hair, bearing down on him like a hurricane, like a cosmic storm, a force above nature, and Dean aches, ready and willing to lose himself in him.

Dean grips the lapels of Castiel’s trench coat like he’s holding onto a life jacket; his chest is full to bursting and that ache spreads through him, blooming like a wondrous bruise he never wants to heal – _mark me so I’ll remember this_ , he wants to say, not that he ever could, but his mind flashes to a long-healed handprint. His lungs strain, tipping close to that point of buckling, and he tugs on Castiel’s coat, trying to unseal himself from the fervor of the angel’s lips.

He manages to dip his head, a shiver running through his body at Castiel’s huff of displeasure; Castiel chases his lips and Dean lifts a hand to intercept his mouth. Castiel narrows his eyes and frowns behind Dean’s palm, pupils blown wide, face flushed, chest heaving even though he doesn’t technically need to breathe.

“Need air,” Dean gets out at last, catching his breath, breaking his mind free of the distraction of Castiel’s bright star-struck eyes. He starts to lower his hand, but Castiel ducks down and chases _that_ , catching it in his own and then pressing soft kisses there, murmuring an apology that Dean instantly accepts (not that Castiel ever needs to apologize for kissing Dean breathless), because _holy shit_ – Castiel mouths at the gentler skin between his fingers and Dean can’t help but groan; it’s nowhere near his dick but it’s the hottest thing he’s ever felt, and his body reacts like it’s been electrified. He tries to remember how to breathe again.

He turns his hand and Castiel presses a kiss to his palm before Dean is pulling them both to their feet, all open-mouthed heat and slick and slide of tongue. Castiel steps backwards, lets himself be crowded up against the wall, following the dance of their bodies as Dean snakes his hands under the trench coat, under the suit jacket, to the last of his too-many layers to grip his waist. The heat of his body even through his shirt is like the sun, all that light and warmth and life that he only ever got to look at until now; now, Dean’s touching him.

Ever the fast learner, Castiel breaks the kiss to nibble a trail along Dean’s jaw, giving him a chance to breathe; breath which leaves him in a gasp as he experimentally rolls his hips against Castiel’s. The move makes Castiel’s hands tighten where they’re threaded in Dean’s hair as he chokes out a gasp in kind, eyes wide.

“Do that again.” Castiel’s voice is wrecked and astonished, somewhere between a whine and a growl and all _holy, holy, holy_.

Dean grins and obliges, rolling with more courage this time, and his smirk crashes down harder than he grows in the confines of his jeans. The friction is _delicious_ , and the way Castiel’s eyes roll back, his head softly thumping against the tiled wall is an image that’ll be burnt into his memory forever.

His gut, his spine, all the way down to his toes and the back of his neck are a mess of sparks pinwheeling through him, and he can’t _think_ but he needs to – why does he need to?

He follows that thought even as he ruts against Castiel, their hips moving together, desperate, losing control, skirting that edge. Incredible, perfect sounds are falling out of Castiel’s open mouth, eyes turned heavenward before he looks at Dean’s face in rapture before surging forward to kiss him again, not hungry but ravenous. He’s going to fall to pieces here, in this bathroom—

That thought finally hits him.

“Cas, wait,” Dean gasps. “We— we can’t do this.” He bites down on a whine as Castiel pulls back, jolting, suddenly stiff and not in a good way, leaving Dean adrift, brain short-circuiting with confusion, before he finally realizes that, oh shit, yeah, he could’ve phrased that better.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel is already mumbling, starting to step away, head down. “I, I shouldn’t have—”

Dean grabs his arm before he can get away and walk out the door. “Woah, no, that’s not— that’s not what I meant,” he says, fighting for the ability to compose sentences. “We can’t – I mean, we shouldn’t, I don’t— not _here._ ” He’s babbling, but Castiel has stopped moving away, at least. He’s not leaving. There’s still a blissed-out glaze over his eyes; his hair is such a mess Dean wants to quip about falling from heaven but he knows better; Castiel looks utterly _debauched_ and they haven’t even gotten to the best part yet. “Not in the bathroom,” Dean finally gets out, lamely.

Castiel blinks. Then what Dean is saying clicks, and once that familiar look of _Dean, you idiot_ clears away that starving, eager light glows in his eyes again, a tenfold stronger. He’s pressing up against Dean like a lightning-flash, his mouth capturing Dean’s, and Dean pushes back, kisses back, equally insatiable. He’s panting and hard and the whole of his body sings, electric, but he manages to lift his hands from Castiel’s waist to his shoulders, pries him away – or tries to, anyway, he only manages to move the angel about a millimeter before Castiel is back again, pressing kiss after kiss on Dean’s lips, following the line of his jaw to the space right beneath his ear, the one that jellies Dean’s kneecaps. Now he grips Castiel’s shoulders so he won’t tumble down.

“Cas,” Dean groans. Castiel just hums, trailing kisses down Dean’s neck, each little starburst of pleasure making it very difficult to think. “Cas, we’re still in the bathroom.”   

He can’t see Castiel’s face, but he can sense the roll of his eyes. “Can you even walk?” There’s a burr of sarcasm in the sound of his smile.

“Can you?” Dean retorts, weakly.

Castiel mouths at the vulnerable hollow of Dean’s throat, tongue and a little scrape of teeth, warm and wet and claiming, before leaning back against the wall. “I don’t know,” he laughs, eyes crinkling around the edges, bright and wild with absolute delight.

Dean didn’t know his heart could be this full; he’s near-bursting with emotion, half-expecting to see light shining out from the pores of his skin. He wants to hear that laugh again, and again, for the rest of his days.

Time stretches out before him then, the future and the past, all the dangerous and roughshod facts of their lives filtering unwelcome through his joy, and Dean swallows thickly, touching his fingers to Castiel’s lips and the smile there. He could lose that laugh, he could lose this man standing whole and well before him; he’s lost him before, to death and circumstance and his own stupidity.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Dean admits, because if he doesn’t admit it now he may never do it, and then it’ll be too late and he’ll end up breaking something he can never repair. He gestures between them for emphasis – at the _thing_ between them that has a physical presence in the room, fogging up the bathroom mirror – and what he means is, _I don’t know how to do this the right way, the healthy way, the good way people are supposed to love each other – I can’t live without you;_ he loves with a two-handed white-knuckled desperation and sooner or later it’s going to hurt. It already has. It already does.

Castiel just chuckles, a little dark and a little bitter, like the coffee he’s grown so fond of. “And I’m an expert in relationships?” The questions tilts the end of his sentence up, his voice lifting in time with an eyebrow, with the confident rise of his chin. His smile is all light. Though he’s the one against the wall he’s got Dean pinned with his stare, and his tongue peeks out, wetting his kiss-reddened lips. 

That teasing, unconscious swipe has Dean hypnotized; he watches its retreat back into Castiel’s mouth and he wants to chase it, wants to follow it inside Castiel, burrow into him and make a home there, behind his ribs, in the heat of his gut, until his skin Dean’s skin and every pulse of life is also Dean’s, until they’re so tangled up in each other there’s no space left between them.

“It’s not just that,” Dean says, though something tells him Castiel already knows this. “I can’t lose you again.”

A sad sort of sobriety lifts through the heady haze in Castiel’s eyes. “I can’t promise that you won’t,” he says. He presses his palm over Dean’s heart, skirting across the tender bud of a nipple on the way there. Dean ripples with sensation, fracturing, grounded, in and out of his body all at once; the world isn’t even ending but it feels like it must be, the only time the apocalypse has been so, so _good_ ; he’s not even thinking of stopping this, inevitable loss be _damned_ , because he needs this more than he’s afraid of it. “But I am yours,” Castiel continues, softly as if he knows Dean is going to fly apart at any moment. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

Dean doesn’t waste a heartbeat; the “ _Forever_ ” tumbles out of his mouth on an instinct he didn’t even realize he had. That’s the precipice they’re standing on; there’s no one for him after Castiel. There can’t be. He’d thought he wasn’t made for anything but the occasional meaningless one-night stand; he’d brushed off Sam’s speeches about finding someone _in the life_ , telling himself that the vague sense of unease he felt about it meant that he just wasn’t interested in commitment, rather than the fact that it was the notion that he hadn’t _already_ found someone. He never felt the call to look, he realizes, because Castiel has been right there all along.

He’s right here, and Dean kisses him again. It’s different; the simmering heat of their arousal is still present, but the kiss is softer. It carries weight, and it carries surety; it’s a kiss that knows exactly what it is. It feels like a promise. No, greater than that, Dean thinks, pulling back to look at Castiel’s face framed between his hands: a vow.

“Come with me,” Dean says.

Of course Castiel follows.                   

His bedroom door locks with a preternaturally loud click; Dean trusts his family not to come bursting in unannounced while they’re, well… _compromised_ , but the added measure of security puts him more at ease. He turns to Castiel, who has already shrugged out of his trenchcoat and suit jacket, folding them across the back of a chair, and it just isn’t fair that he can look _that_ pornographic while still dressed in a button-down and tie like a businessman who doesn’t quite get Casual Friday. He drinks in Castiel’s form as he removes his shoes, relishing in his freedom to look so freely. He only falters when he sees the same appreciation in Castiel’s gaze; it’s hard to bear, like staring into the sun.

Dean manages to clear his throat.

“So, uh, how do you want me?” He’s aiming for suave and he’s pretty sure he misses the mark; he can feel his grin tipping, showing his hand, revealing his insecurity; if he were trying to lean seductively against the wall he’d be stumbling over himself and falling over. His sudden nerves jitter with anticipation more than anxiety, because there are _options_ and he’s overwhelmed with where to start first, and he still can’t quite believe that this is real and not some dream he’ll wake up alone from.

Castiel surprises him by not rolling his eyes. His tongue swipes out to lick his lips instead, like Dean is the most appetizing thing he’s ever seen, burgers be damned. Lust brims in his eyes as he stalks towards Dean, but more than that there’s _adoration_ ; this is _Cas_ , and Dean is struck with the realization that Castiel wants him in any way: not at all as smooth as he’d like to think he is, awkward and fumbling and human.

All thoughts are stripped away when Castiel presses his entire body against Dean’s, seizing his mouth with his own, teeth and tongue, messy and eager and so goddamn perfect and real that Dean melts, and then flows as Castiel spins him around, toppling them both to the bed.

The walk to the bedroom had cooled the fire in his blood, but looking up at Castiel over him cures that almost dizzyingly; the low throbbing ache grows until it’s almost painful, until he’s straining; they’re wearing too many clothes and Dean needs to be closer, _now_.

“I want you,” Castiel growls. Dean swears he sees flickering sparks of pale blue grace dancing in his eclipsed irises.

“You have me,” Dean curls his hand around Castiel’s neck and surges upwards for a kiss. “You have me,” he repeats into the corner of Castiel’s lips. He reaches for Castiel’s tie and undoes it easily, the knot already loose from their earlier touches. Dean tugs it free from his collar with a quiet _shhssh_ of fabric. Something in his mind glints in interest as he holds its soft sturdiness in his hand, but he lets it fall to the side. Plenty of time for _that_ later, and a giddy current runs all the way down to Dean’s toes at the thought of next time, and the times to follow after that.

Because now he knows it’s possible to have this. In the past, he convinced himself that if he could have Castiel like this once – just once – he’d be satisfied, but now he realizes how completely and utterly wrong he was; each button he frees from Castiel’s shirt is an indulgence that stokes his desire; he wants more, and more, _more_. The _forever_ he’d promised earlier was hyperbole, and they both know that. The reprieve of victory that they’ve found now can’t last – that’s not the way their lives work – but Dean wants _this_ and more until the day Heaven or Hell or any of Earth’s monsters come gunning for him. His version of forever is likely a handful of years at best, and at worst something ganks him later this week, but every moment between now and then he wants to share with Castiel; wants to feel them pressed skin-to-skin, wants to take him to some no-star nowhere diner for something like a proper date, wants to wake up with him in his bed, wants a million other things that he never thought he’d get, least of all with his best friend.

He skims his hands down Castiel’s bare chest, appreciating the heat of his body and the solidity of his muscles, the way Castiel shivers under his fingertips, the way his eyelids flutter shut. Dean trails along the waistband of his slacks and revels in the hitch and stutter of Castiel’s breath as he teases the skin there, and can’t help but grin at the squint of annoyance Castiel gives him as he slowly drags his hands back up.

“Dean,” Castiel’s voice is low and thick with arousal, but his tone is firm enough to be taken as a warning. He’s lust-flushed but there’s enough indignation in his glare that Dean is reminded of a gathering storm; _show me some respect_ echoes from their past but Dean is unperturbed, knowing how soft Castiel is for him (well, not literally, not at the moment). Castiel’s _don’t-test-me_ voice makes him tremble for a different reason these days, and now he feels powerful and _good_.  

“I thought patience was a virtue,” Dean chides, seeking out all the tender spaces of Castiel’s torso, mapping all the places where sensitivity buzzes beneath his fingers, licking his lips at the hiss of breath that comes as he tweaks a nipple, strongly reconsidering the unofficial Winchester family uniform of layers upon layers. Maybe tank tops should be their new thing. _Definitely,_ Dean agrees with himself, tugging the shirt off Castiel’s strong arms and laughing at himself for ever thinking that Castiel was a dorky _little_ dude.

The button-down joins the tie somewhere off to the side and Castiel is suddenly liberated, snapping forward before Dean has the chance to explore the wealth of skin revealed to him; he makes a sound of protest into Castiel’s searing kiss, curling his fingers into the heat of Castiel’s chest. “Patience,” Castiel hums in his ear, dark and sweet. He nips at Dean’s bottom lip before sitting back on Dean’s thighs, knees bracketing his hips; Castiel looks down at him in reverence and Dean, still clothed, feels his heart stutter with vulnerability.  

Dean clears his throat. “You just gonna undress me with your eyes, or…?”

Castiel softens at the tension in his voice. “Not just with my eyes,” he says. The flush on his cheeks darkens. “If that’s alright?”

Dean almost laughs – his jeans are still so tight that it’s painful – but catches himself when he see the honest hesitation in the fidget of Castiel’s expression, the way he hesitates, suddenly shy. Dean sits up on his elbows, as best he can with the weight of the other man on his legs. It’s an awkward position and his back protests – he won’t be able to hold it for long – but he manages to get a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, offering a squeeze in reassurance. “Hey,” he says, catching his eyes. He feels like he’s holding Castiel’s whole world in the palm of his hand and he wants to argue, wants to tell him that he shouldn’t let Dean have power like this; he doesn’t deserve that kind of faith, he doesn’t trust that he won’t break it. But he can’t let this go, won’t let Castiel go, not when they both want this. Not when they both _need_ this. This, and everything.

So he says, “That would freaking awesome.”

Dean is treated to that sunshine-smile breaking like a newly reassured dawn again and, yeah, he was _kind of_ joking all those times he used that pet name, _sunshine_ , but he knows he’s over and gone now – he’s going to be smiling that endearment every opportunity he gets.

He leans back against the pillows at his headboard, playing at coy and seductive, quirking his brow and lips in a _follow-me_ -motion; he’s acting more confident than he is because, to be honest, he’s feeling like a teenager in those swooping moments before his first kiss, and sure, maybe it’s not the same, but the fact remains: this is momentous. It’s important. It means everything. Dean’s not the only one with a world held in his hands; Castiel has his in kind. Maybe that’s what… all of _this_ means. Being able to break one another, and trying your damnedest not to.

“Your thoughts are…very loud,” Castiel says, confidence smoothing back into the lines of his body as he leans back down, closer to Dean, noses bumping before finding his lips.

“Reading my mind, are you?” Dean says, pressing up into their kiss, helping Castiel to finally shrug him out of his flannel.

“I don’t need to.” Whatever worry Dean might have had about Castiel taking him more seriously than he’d meant is soothed away by the easy slide of their tongues, together, deep and weighted with passion.

“Well, I’ll try to keep it down.” Dean grins. “Might be hard, though.”

Castiel’s responding grin is all teeth and appetite, double entendre not lost on him. “Maybe I don’t want you to be quiet.” And then Castiel sliding down his body, hiking up his undershirt; Dean chokes on whatever he was going to say next – it wasn’t important, surely, not as important as Castiel’s hands on him, all over him, touching, feeling, his kisses following after the tender and thorough persistence of his fingers, set on exploring every inch of him. He sits up long enough to shuck his shirt off before Castiel pushes him back down, fervent with kisses, and they’re skin-to-skin but not _everywhere_ ; Dean runs his hands up the expanse of Castiel’s back, massages into the strong flesh and rolls his hips _up_ – their groans lift in harmony, Dean panting into the heat of Castiel’s mouth, and then Castiel’s mouth is gone.

Dean bites his fist as the brand of Castiel’s lips lavishes the softness of his lower belly, and then startles and opens his eyes at the hand on his forearm, looking down to meet Castiel’s eyes.

“I meant it,” Castiel says. He doesn’t pull Dean’s hand away from his mouth, but what he wants is clear. He hovers over Dean’s hips, breath skimming over gooseflesh, eyes holding Dean’s. Waiting for Dean to come to him. Patiently. Not letting him go.

“Yeah. Okay.” He lowers his fist, sliding the loose grip of Castiel’s hand along his arm, reaching to entwine their fingers. Castiel blinks in surprise, and then some emotion too great to name floods over his face; Dean is relieved at the chance to hide his own vulnerability, his own flood of feeling ( _love_ , his heart whispers), behind a flurry of kisses.

Castiel sinks back down, hand still clasped with Dean’s, which leaves him one-handed and fumbling at Dean’s belt. He curses – something that sounds more Enochian than English – and Dean can’t help but laugh. “Here, let me—” Before he reaches down to help, his belt unlatches of its own accord – a slight cheat of grace that he’s more than willing to forgive, because Castiel is undoing his button and fly and tugging his jeans down and off and gone.

He all but jack-knives on the bed as Castiel mouths at the swell of him through his boxers, and almost misses the awed whisper of _Dean_ beneath the sound the moan that tumbles from his mouth. His free hand returns to muffle himself but then he remembers, even before Castiel’s pointed look, and alters its course to run through Castiel’s hair. “Cas,” he gasps. He’s so hard he’s leaking, pearling fluid into the dampness of his boxers. He won’t last much longer, especially if—

Dean’s head drops back as Castiel pulls the fabric down, freeing him, and his sigh of relief is quickly swallowed and exchanged for a moan because, _oh_ , he’d thought perhaps that Castiel would be hesitant or awkward in this, but he kisses the head of him as thoroughly as he did his mouth, singing pleasure through him, curling his toes. And yeah, his inexperience shows a little; Dean hisses at the rough friction of his hand before Castiel catches on, and instead of spitting on his palm the clever, wonderful bastard _licks_ the hardness of his shaft, all warm and wet, and Dean is nearly _gone_ even before Castiel’s hand wraps around him, stroking with a little more ease.

“Is this good?” Castiel’s voice is rough, his lips spit-slick, and he looks up from between Dean’s legs and, _God_ , he’s _so so close so close—_

“Y-eah, Cas. _Cas._ ” Dean’s words are a breath and a splinter of sound. “Good, so good, so, so, it’s _good_ —” He babbles on, lost in it – the sensation, the brimming terror of rapture in the dam of his too-full heart, the gleam of pride and hunger and love in Castiel’s electric eyes – and then gives up on words, squeezing Castiel’s hand, his anchor and buoy both at once.

And then Castiel swallows him down.

It’s— it’s not even that _finessed_ ; Castiel knows the base idea of it but there’s still a few tricks for Dean to teach him (and he _will_ , by example) but, _oh_ , Dean sees a galaxy of stars, his heart leaping, a current racing across his skin; it’s just— he’s _inside_ _Cas_ , all that heat and light and grace around him, engulfing him. There’s a rush in his ears and a sound that must be his own cries of pleasure, he realizes, and he’s brimming and tipping and the cliff’s edge is under his feet, then it’s gone and—

“I’m gonna—” Is all Dean manages to get out, and Castiel makes an unabashed, undeniable sound of affirmation that vibrates to the core of him and that’s all he needs.

Dean free falls.

It’s all white light and a rush of things he can’t even dare put name to; he’s not even sure he’s in his body anymore – he’s been flung out into cosmic dust and radiation, into a sound like the first day he met Castiel, surrounded by it, by this unknowable creature that he _knows_ , this ancient and timeless, holy and imperfect man that he _loves_ ; he swears he can hear him now, a language beyond him and indescribable and _for him_.

He’s not surprised at the wetness on his face when he comes back to himself, minutes or a millennia later. His breath hiccups around a sob and Castiel is there, praise and gratitude and kisses on his lips, offered gently onto Dean’s lips, his cheeks, his eyelids. Castiel presses a soft kiss to his forehead before he lifts up, and Dean opens his eyes.

His throat works around a swallow, lost for words, but they must show in the watery shine of his eyes because the concern on Castiel’s face soothes away, and his angel smiles down at him.

“Hello Dean,” he says, and _yes, that’s perfect_.

“Hey Cas,” Dean smiles back. He’s boneless, floating in the softness of contentment. Moving seems unfathomable, but he prides himself on being a giving lover, and the tent of Castiel’s slacks means his partner is still clearly unfinished, and that’s something Dean cannot abide, a renewed excitement rushing pleasantly along the peaceful hum in his veins.

“C’mere.” Dean reaches for him, undoes his belt with fingers still tingling, not missing Castiel’s surprised sigh of relief when Dean frees him. “Better?” Dean asks knowingly, and Castiel nods, lips tight around a sound, hips pushing forward of their own will. Dean gladly obliges, wrapping a steadier hand around him and that sound finally comes out, an eager, desperate moan tangled around something that sounds like _Oh, Dean_. Castiel curls forward and Dean encourages him closer, draws him to his chest, keeping his hand working between their bodies.

He won’t last, angelic stamina or no; he’s impossibly hard beneath the pace of Dean’s hand, his breath gusting hot and fast against the cooling sweat on Dean’s neck, making tiny, beautiful sounds that would’ve had him ready and raring to go again if he’d been a younger man.

Castiel’s fingers twitch and tighten where they grip him and his next breathless moan hitches, stuttering as he dances along that precipice, rolling his hips in abandon.

“That’s it,” Dean encourages. “That’s it, let go for me. I’ve got you,” he says, pressing a kiss to his damp hair and then, because it feels right, adding, “Castiel.”

There’s a broken syllable of a cry that might’ve once been Dean’s name and the lights flare and flicker, bulbs humming close to their breaking point as Castiel tenses and then falls apart, splitting open, spilling hot and wonderful over Dean’s hand, onto his stomach. He shudders through the aftershocks. Dean withdraws when it becomes too much, wiping his hand on the sheets before Castiel collapses against his chest, a dead weight radiating satisfaction.

Dean lifts the hand that wasn’t just covered in spend and cards it through Castiel’s hair, pleased when Castiel leans into the touch with a happy sigh, relaxing further atop Dean. For his part, Dean would be more than content to never move again.

“This is why it’s better in bed,” he says, wrapping his other arm around Castiel and sinking even deeper into the bed.

A sated, not-quite-conceding _mmph_ is the only reply Castiel makes any effort to give, and Dean chuckles, a grin stretching wide. _God, he gets to have this_.

The fond silence settles comfortably around them. Dean wonders if Castiel has actually fallen asleep and feels a burst of pride at the idea that he did that, and now they’re lying naked in Dean’s bed (or mostly, anyways – Dean still has his socks on, and Castiel’s slacks are still around his thighs). As if also remembering this fact, Castiel stirs in his arms, sliding out of his embrace and sitting up.

For a moment Dean’s heart falters, suddenly afraid that Castiel is going to leave, but he just sets to trying to get his pants off without leaving the bed, tossing them to the side as if they’ve offended him after they catch around an ankle. He flops back down along Dean’s side, resting his head against Dean’s shoulder with an arm slung over his chest. It feels like he _belongs_ there.

“For the record,” Dean says, breaking the silence as he traces gentle circles on Castiel’s back, remembering the frown at _You told me to never change._ “I like this version of you.”

Castiel presses a closed-mouthed kiss to his shoulder. “I like this version of you, too.” He hooks Dean’s leg with his calf, further entwining them. _I’m not going anywhere_ , he seems to be saying.

Dean stares up at the ceiling, gathering all of himself. He doesn’t say it very often – at least not in direct words, for whatever reason he comes at this language sideways, putting his _I love you’s_ into _I need you_ , and pranking his brother, in the way he sings and gruffs to Castiel about stupid decisions, in the way he’d do anything to protect all of them. But he wants to say it now, in this space so safe it feels _easy_ , like it can be something he can voice directly and not have the world come crashing apart around him for.

“I love, you know,” Dean says.  

The arm across his chest becomes the tightness of a half-embrace, and then Castiel leans up, a palm on Dean’s cheek with such _worship_ that Dean’s throat grows tight again. But he works up the courage and meets Castiel’s waiting eyes, the blue so bright and watery as Castiel _looks_ at him.

“And I love you,” Castiel says. “For so long.”

“Me too,” Dean admits, and then they’re closing the distance until there’s no more left, trading sweet and precious kisses, and it feels like the universe has finally gone right.

Later, near sleep with Castiel beside him, Dean will think about that: the universes and other ways their stories have gone, could’ve gone, didn’t go, the way some worlds spin their lives into different tapestries, some beautiful, others strange and others broken and bloody and terrible. How many versions of each other have they seen?

Castiel pulls him closer, soothing his thoughts. Dean settles and then finds Castiel’s hand again, weaves their fingers together and holds their hands against his heart.

Dean closes his eyes, falling easily into the waiting sleep. The moment before he slips into the quiet dark he’s almost certain that he glimpses a golden halo of wings around him. 

 _There are many version of us, but this is the version of you that loves me_.

**Author's Note:**

> this has been in my folder titled short fics for a long while and the fact that this is? technically? short for me is a cause of great pride because while i've always known that i'm a writer of long-windedness, i'm ecstatic that i'm actually finishing stuff!! esp. 7k explicit fics. my first one, too.
> 
> also i wish that windows would let me title that folder as "short" fics
> 
> title from siken's "litany of snow and dirty rain" from _crush_  
>  ( _A page of the book where we / transcend the story of our lives_ ) 
> 
> i'm here on [tumblr](https://honeyed-wings.tumblr.com/), if you want to stop by and chat with me or toss a coffee into my name-change fund


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